The Sugar Beat
by OhThatsWanky
Summary: When America's favorite pop star finds herself in hot water, she turns to retired police detective Brittany Pierce to help get her out of it. Problem is, Brittany's been enjoying the retired life with her wife, the wealthy philanthropist Santana Lopez, and she's not exactly thrilled by the idea of taking on a new case. au!Brittana, in progress
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story was written to fill a prompt from a generous sponsor who made a donation during the Clarion West Write-a-thon. Not familiar with Clarion West and how it's helping to support the next generation of under-represented writers? Check 'em out at clarionwest dot org

Also, my infinite apologies to Dashiell Hammett.

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><p>I was helping myself to another bourbon at the open bar when a girl parked herself beside my elbow. She wore a getup that made her look like a teenage peacock, the kind that expected attention. I kept my nose in my glass and took a nice big sip. Not bad for a fundraising event. Something had to keep the hinges on those checkbooks greased.<p>

When the girl couldn't take it anymore, she said to me, "You're Britt Pierce."

"Yep, that's me."

She didn't need to introduce herself but she did it anyway. "I'm Sugar Motta."

Sugar Motta, America's auto-tuned sweetheart. Her face was inescapable: on TV, news sites, gossip rags, the headlines braying about Sugar Motta's new album, Sugar Motta's on tour, Sugar Motta's got a new boyfriend.

I stuck out my hand. "Pleased to meet you, Sugar Motta."

Her handshake was surprisingly firm. "Likewise," she said. She looked me square in the eyes when she spoke. "Ms. Pierce, I was hoping to—"

I held up a hand. "First: my friends call me Brittany," I said, "and second: what'll you have to drink?"

Her eyes flicked to the side. I shifted against the bar and spotted him immediately: tall with dark hair, a muscle crammed into a suit. If she was asking permission, he was more than just a bodyguard. She recovered nicely, saying, "Why don't you surprise me, Brittany."

I got her a gin and tonic and let her squeeze in next to me at the bar. "You were saying?"

"I'm in a bit of trouble, and I was hoping you might be the one who could help me get out of it."

A bit usually meant a lot, and these days, I wasn't interested in trouble. "Unless your trouble involves what to put in a liquor cabinet, I'm afraid I can't be much help."

"Mercedes Jones says you're the best in the business."

"Did she tell you to drop her name like that?"

"She did. She also told me you were quite the dancer back in the day."

I heard Santana's voice from behind my shoulder. "She still is," Santana said, sidling up to my hip. "Who knew a big bad cop could be so graceful?"

I slid my arm around her waist and pulled her closer while I made introductions. "Ms. Motta, this is my wife, Santana Lopez."

They traded handshakes. "Please, call me Sugar."

"I was just telling Sugar how much I've been enjoying my retirement," I said.

Santana gave me an indulgent smile. "Is that so?" she said. "Then you've gotten over feeling cooped up inside the house?"

Busted.

Sugar and Santana traded looks that belonged to a dialect of the secret language of women that I didn't speak. I put on a pout, and gestured around the ballroom. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"You sure are, honey. Now give me a sip of that drink, will you?" Santana said, taking the glass right out of my hand. "Talking people out of their money and into the donors list has left me parched." When she made to give it back, I motioned for her to keep it.

Sugar was watching us curiously. But then she seemed to remember herself. "Forgive me, I've already taken enough of your time, but I'd still like to pay you a visit if you'd let me," she said, and now that Santana was here of course we would, and a moment later, we were shaking hands and making plans for the day after tomorrow, and then Sugar Motta took her drink and left us at the bar.

"She's not what I expected," Santana said.

"A-listers rarely are."

"I wonder what people expect from us."

"From you? Everyone knows you've got razor-sharp words to match your bombshell looks. I'm just the hired muscle behind your brains."

She punched me lightly in the arm. "Flattery will get you everywhere, honey, but you're much more than just muscle — I need you around to reach things on the highest shelves."

The band on stage struck up a lively salsa tune. "Is that so?" I said, and I put my hands around her waist and lifted her into a twirl.

When I set her back down, she took my hand and led me to the dance floor. "Come on, Detective. How do you feel about scandalizing this old money crowd?"

I grinned, just before we did exactly that.


	2. Chapter 2

We were snoozing in bed around ten the next morning when Santana's phone started to play that Darth Vader song from Star Wars. The beat went well with the pounding in my temples. I groaned and nudged Santana closer to her nightstand.

Santana picked up the phone. "Good morning, Quinn."

I hid my eyes in the crook of my elbow and tried to will my hangover away while they discussed meeting for lunch.

"How does Spago at eleven thirty sound, honey?" I heard Santana ask.

"I'm gonna assume that question was for me, unless you've taken your relationship with Quinn to the next level."

"Quinn does know how to treat a lady," Santana said. The little minx actually sounded wistful.

I spooned in behind her and growled, "I bet she does. Tell her I'll play the third wheel if she picks up the check." Then I tickled Santana's belly until she burst out laughing and swatted my hand away.

She lifted the phone back to her ear. "What's that? Oh, Brittany's just showing me how a proper lady behaves."

Eventually, the plans for lunch were set. "What does Quinn want?" I asked when she hung up the phone.

"Who says Quinn wants something?"

"When doesn't Quinn want something — she never lets herself off the clock."

"Nothing wrong with a little ambition," Santana said. "But you're right, she wants to talk football."

"Football" was shorthand for a terribly complicated series of business dealings that involved the city of Anaheim, the dysfunctional family that owned the Oakland Raiders, and a motley crew of landowners and developers all fighting for a slice of NFL pie. All of it went over my head, but navigating the cloak-and-dagger world of business was the sort of thing Santana lived for. Or used to, before her net worth exponentially grew into the billions and she declared victory by retiring at the top of her game. Now she spent her time finding worthy causes that could use an influx of money and helping friends when they asked for advice.

"She still helping the city negotiate?" I asked.

"She's technically acting as a consultant, but from what she's told me, she might as well be working pro bono."

"Really?"

"Yeah, she said she made so much money on that Metropolis deal she needed something to cleanse her conscience."

"Good, then her credit card won't be declined when she pays for lunch."

"Brittany, be nice. You sore about being the third wheel?"

"Naw, you know I like giving her a hard time. She always has to have things just so."

"My little agent of chaos," Santana said sweetly.

I gave her a peck on the cheek. "Only to everyone else, love," I said. "Now we better get up and get ready, 'cause traffic's going to be a bear."

We met Quinn at the restaurant at exactly eleven thirty. The place was packed as always, and we settled in at one of the cocktail tables next to the patio. The menu had a lot of words like "wild-caught" and "locally-grown" and "free-range" — which is why Quinn liked it.

I ordered a bourbon to take the edge off my hangover, and after it arrived Quinn asked, "How can you drink that?"

"It's organic," I said.

Quinn rolled her eyes and turned to Santana. "This football business is fucking killing me right now."

I had nothing to add to this conversation, so I sipped my drink and let them talk while I people watched the dining room and the patio. Catch a movie some night and you might spot the big star at a table here the next day, tucking in to a steak. You might even see someone like Sugar Motta.

"Speaking of tickets, Rachel and I were supposed to see the symphony tonight, but things came up and now we can't. You guys want to go instead?"

Santana looked at me. "How about it, Brittany?"

"Sure, I could use the culture."

"I'll email you the tickets right now," Quinn said as she pulled out her phone.

Santana touched my arm. "You should tell Quinn about last night's pop culture encounter."

"Oh?" Quinn said, looking up at me. She set her phone aside. "Tickets are on their way."

"We ran into Sugar Motta at that LACMA fundraiser," I said.

"You had a run in with Sugar Motta? Damn, now I wish I had gone."

Santana shook her head. "I wouldn't call it a run in — more like her running to Brittany."

I held up my hand, hoping to reign in any runaway thoughts. "We had a very pleasant conversation, nothing more."

"What's she like?" Quinn asked.

"She's pretty," I said.

Santana clasped her hands together in front of her as if she'd just been let in on a secret. "Tell me more."

"Not as pretty as you, darling, but pretty enough. Though the fact that she's in trouble is a turn-off."

That really got Quinn's attention. "What sort of trouble do you think she's in?"

I shrugged. "I haven't a clue. All she said was that she had some."

"Whatever it is, she seemed pretty intent on talking to Brittany. She said she got Brittany's name from Mercedes."

Quinn's eyebrows shot up. "You don't think this is another stalker situation, do you?"

"I sure hope not," I said. "I never want to deal with a loony like that ever again."

Santana raised her glass. "I'll drink to that."

I drained the last of my bourbon and motioned for the waiter. "How about some dessert?" I said, changing the subject.


End file.
